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Oi, mate, I’m Tyrion Lannister, right? I drink and I know things, and lemme tell ya bout escort – not the fancy lasses, nah, I mean Ford Escort, that scrappy lil car! Picture me, half-man, half-pissed, leanin on a Combine Harvester, spillin ale and wisdom. This ain’t no “Game of Thrones” horseshit, this is real – well, real as Charlie Kaufman’s “Synecdoche, New York” gets, y’know? “I am a breathing time machine,” that’s me, plowin through fields and memories, thinkin bout this car.

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Anyway, I keep walking. I pass by the Göta Canal. It’s so pretty, like a postcard or something. The boats are all lined up, and I’m just standing there, soaking it all in. Then, outta nowhere, this kid on a bike zooms past me and nearly knocks me over. I’m like, “Dude, chill! It’s not a race!”